Incineration and Determination
by Benny The Crazed Cartoonist
Summary: Two skeletons and a little pup walk into a bar, and somewhere in this joke the bartender becomes a babysitter. What possessed Grillby to agree to this? MobUT AU, genderneutral Frisk, no pairings.


**This story spawned off quite a few things: lack of Grillby in the archive, nyublackneko's Undertale Mob AU (for which I have fallen head over heels), and listening to far too much Shootout (the Mobtale version of Bonetrousle, by Jeffrey Watkins).**

 **In regards to the AU guidelines, I've taken a few liberties: The Skelebros are more dangerous than annoying, Pup is submissive during fights, and Grillby actually speaks. These are my alterations, and do not remain 100% true to nyublackneko's version, but I felt them necessary.**

 **This was edited quickly, and all mistakes are my own. All rights to their respective owners. On with the show.**

* * *

Grillby's eyes flit back and forth between Sans, Papyrus, and the tiny creature clinging to both of their hands. "You would like me to do... what, now?"

Sans sighs, knowing where this conversation is headed. "Look, Grillby, I know it's not really your area of expertise-"

He has that right. Nowhere in the bartender's handbook does it say 'one must agree to watch over the smaller pets of regular customers'.

"-but Pap and I are heading out on a," the skeleton pauses purposefully, long enough to garner hidden meaning, but not so obviously as to draw attention, "job today, possibly dangerous, and-"

Papyrus picks up the explanation from there, "-And we don't want Little Pup in harm's way!"

The fire elemental remains silent for a beat. "Toriel?"

"She's on a business trip. Trust me, Grillbz, if there were anyone else, that's where we'd be, but..."

Grillby busies himself with wiping down a wine glass until the dim bar light reflects stunningly off the polished glass. "They cannot stay at your residence because..."

This gets both of the brothers glancing darkly over their shoulders, pulling their coat collars up to shield their hooded eyes. "There are some people who'd pay a lot for our heads right now. Call it a man hunt." Sans mutters into his scarf.

"If someone were to stumble upon our amazingly hidden hideaway and discover poor Little Pup all by their lonesome, they would have a rather impressive bargaining chip against the Skeleton Brothers."

Grillby understands they can't safely say more, not in the bar where every eye and ear is on the lookout and tongues are loosened by alcohol. The Pup's unwavering stare is unnerving, as if they can see right through him, but they seem harmless enough. Grillby holds their gaze for a moment, but directs his words to the skeletons. "How long will you be gone?"

"Not long." Vague, and at the same time, Grillby believes them.

He sets his wine glass among its family on the shelf behind him. "Don't leave them with me for more than a day. I have a job to do."

Tension floods from the brothers' shoulders like a dam just burst. Papyrus bends down to share a few parting words with Little Pup, while Sans leans against the bar counter. "Hey, since you're doing us a few favours anyways..."

"You will pay your tab now, or you will pay it later, Sans. I am not letting you get drinks for free."

Sans shrugs easily. "Eh. It was worth a _shot._ "

They leave, Sans laughing heartily and Papyrus attempting to channel all his rage into his clenched fists. When the door bangs shut behind them, Grillby turns his gaze once again to Little Pup. They are staring after their guardians like they want nothing more than to call the two skeletons back, but they remain silent. They turn their eyes- their strange, probing eyes- to him.

Grillby is the first to glance away as the door opens and more patrons enter. "I hope you can entertain yourself. I have customers."

* * *

Hours pass before Grillby raises his head and notices Little Pup has vanished. For a brief moment, his heart seizes and he panics, before wondering what possessed him to react in such a way. Pup is neither dangerous nor valuable, so there is little reason for him to be concerned over their disappearance. Why did his heart palpitate so? Perhaps the image of an angry Sans came to mind. No one wants an angry Sans.

Making sure all his guests have full glasses, Grillby eases his way out from behind the counter and scans the bar. There! In the back near the poker tables, a head of fluffy brown hair floating over a little blue and white sailor suit. They tug on the pant leg of a monster- who could be a cross between a buffalo and a mountain- and Grillby's heart leaps again as the monster turns, a scowl marring his face. The frown stretches upwards upon sight of the Little Pup, brown eyes warming in greeting. Grillby slows his pace, no longer breezing past tables, the threat of the moment passed.

"Hello, my dear," the buffalo says, setting down his hand. "Would you like to be dealt in?"He glances up upon Grillby's arrival at the table. The fire elemental is puffing slightly. He's not as young as he used to be.

"You shouldn't wander off." He doesn't scold so much as simply state. It's not his place to teach the Pup manners, he will leave that to Papyrus. But he doesn't want youngsters roaming wild under his roof. A bar is no place for a child to be left alone.

The buffalo grins. "Is this one yours, Grillby? I can't say I see the resemblance." The other players laugh at the quip, the Pup a momentary distraction from their game.

Anything to keep the customers happy, he supposes. "No. I am watching them for a friend."

The buffalo reaches down to ruffle Little Pup's hair, eliciting a soft sound of protest. "How much do you think your friend will want for this little cutie? I can think of quite a few buyers who would be happy to have an exotic pet such as this."

Grillby's flames peak as a burning emotion shakes his soul, too quickly to notice offhand but there nonetheless. He doesn't make threats. He doesn't need to. Not that threats would help the situation at all; even standing, his fire tapers away a few inches below the buffalo's head. He simply says quietly, "I do not think Sans would be very happy at all."

The atmosphere darkens at the skeleton's name. The other players suddenly become extremely interested in their cards, gazes kept carefully away from Little Pup as if a fleeting look could bring Sans' wrath down upon them. Pup snitches a card from the table and begins to play with it, none the wiser.

The buffalo's attitude performs an about-face. "Hey, hey I was only joking. The kid is off limits. But if you want me to watch them for a bit so you can do what you do, I could do that. Watch them. I wouldn't hurt them or nothing; just keep them out of trouble."

Grillby believes him. Sans' name is enough to keep any mob grunt in line. And a break from worrying about the child would be more than welcome. "I will check back later." He moves away to refill drinks.

The unspoken promise hangs in the air: if anything happens between now and then, Sans will be notified.

* * *

Long after the sun goes down, the bar is in full swing. Chatter and music merge in a cacophonous melody, cigarette smoke hangs low in the air. The tables are full, the night is young, and Grillby is a busy bartender.

In a rare moment of down time, he finds himself standing opposite Little Pup, who sits on a barstool with a pen clutched in one chubby hand and the other spread over a piece of paper they'd been given. Work momentarily forgotten, Grillby studies the expression of intense concentration etched deep into Little Pup's face. They are so busy they don't even seem to know Grillby is there. It's... rather adorable, if he's honest with himself.

Little Pup settles back, apparently finished, and catches sight of him. A small blush creeps across their face and they fiddle with their paper, holding it to their chest as if they don't want him to see what they created.

Not even stone-faced Grillby can hold back a smile at the Pup's antics, and their attitude rouses a burning desire to see what is scribbled on that paper. He holds out one flaming hand, prompting Little Pup to let him see. They hand it over with no small amount of endearing embarrassment but watch expectantly as he studies the shaky lines.

Grillby's fire dies a little as he stares, dumbfounded, at the little fire elemental portrayed in black ink upon the page. One hand balances a tray of beer mugs. The other grips the hand of a stouter figure in a sailor suit. Both are smiling widely. Having few words to begin with, Grillby is rendered speechless with shock and adoration for his tiny charge. Finally he manages to force words past his blocked throat, "it's... beautiful." Little Pup perks at his words, proud of their gift, puffing up their chest and tilting their chin. "Did you make this for me?" A nod from the child and his tongue is once again useless.

He attempts to give voice to his gratitude, but is stopped by the massive yawn that nearly splits Little Pup's head in two. He leans back, smiling softly as they suddenly can't keep their eyes open, slouching forward until their head brushes the oak counter.

Grillby slides out from behind the bar and helps Little Pup from their stool. He leads the sleepy child through the kitchen door, weaving through the mess of counters. He swipes his hand away reflexively as something brushes against it, fire blazing and stare whipping around.

There is the child, gazing at him with blatant confusion and more than a little hurt, their hand still extended towards his. They seem to realize their error, and their hand drops to clutch their opposite arm with obvious discomfort. They stare at the floor, as if they've done something wrong.

Grillby's flame dies as he realizes what just happened. He wants to warn the Pup, to explain that unprepared, he could have burned them. He wants to apologize, anything to wipe the dejected gloom from Little Pup's face.

He settles instead for reaching one hand towards them.

It takes a second for the action to register, but the smile that stretches across Pup's mouth is fully worth the pause. They grasp his hand, Grillby marveling at the warmth of their skin before continuing through the kitchen to the back storage room. To the left of the swinging door is a simple cot, a temporary resting place for those who've had one too many drinks. It's well-used, but clean. Little Pup hops up immediately, clambering under the covers while Grillby helps arrange them comfortably around the creature's body, hands steady as a surgeon. He lifts one hand, hesitant, before placing it on Pup's soft brown hair. "Rest well."

They smile up at him sleepily before drifting off.

Grillby moves to the door, but pauses a moment to watch them slumber.

Not too long, though. He still has customers.

* * *

Nearing five in the morning, the only sound in Grillby's bar is the tinkling of change as he counts out the till. A fair night. Not as much as he likes, but it rarely is.

Leaving his work for a moment, he peers through the curtains and allows the rising sun to fuel his flame, rejuvenating his energy as if the one moment in the sun's embrace is equal to an entire night's sleep. Breathing deeply, his fire pulses, relaxes, pulses, relaxes rhythmically as any heartbeat.

He lets the curtain fall. He can bask in a moment, but for now there is work to be done.

Earnings counted, Grillby sets aside a collection of bills to act as change. The remaining, he records carefully in his profit book and ties into neat bundles, hands moving robotically as they perform actions repeated over and over throughout the years. His mind slips deep into itself as his body works.

He is yanked back into the present by a sound, his body freezing as though it were made of ice, not fire. It is a sharp cry, cut off so quickly one could assume it never happened. Grillby has learned it's never safe to assume, and his legs are in motion before his mind has a chance to catch up.

He blazes through the kitchen, slamming open the swinging door to the back room, and stops dead. Crowded around his safe, crowbars and lock picks in their dirty, clawed hands, are several rat monsters. All massively muscled, all armed, likely a specialized splinter of a local gang. Their heavy, unwashed odour oozes around the floor like it hasn't the energy to rise into the air. One monster, in the back of the pack, has a little figure in a blue and white sailor suit immobilized.

Little Pup wears their terror plainly, eyes wide and tears trickling down their cheeks; leaking into the fur of their captor's hand, where it clamps shut on their mouth. The other arm holds them aloft, making sure their legs are rendered useless.

For somewhere between a second and eternity, the two groups stare at each other. Grillby is the first to speak. "We're closed."

From the way the pack exchanges glances, this is not the reaction they expected. During this moment, Grillby assesses the situation. There are six thieves, so a fight is undesirable. With Little Pup in their clutches, though, his options are limited. They have a bargaining chip, exactly the situation Sans and Papyrus wanted to avoid when they brought Pup here in the first place.

The rat nearest to the safe replies, "You're out of your league, old man. Get out of here and we'll go with our prizes-" this, meaning both the contents of the safe and their hostage, in order to ensure he will not move to oppose them, "-and no one will get hurt."

Grillby's eyes shift to Little Pup. No one will get hurt? Then why is Little Pup's face streaming with red, bleeding from five pinpricks where their captor's claws split their skin, blood mixing with tears? The rat's promise was broken before it was made. Fire burns in Grillby's veins, flaming head flaring in accordance with his anger, though he doesn't move.

"Since you hurt Pup," Grillby slowly, purposefully, rolls his sleeves to his elbows, "I'll serve you."

He doesn't have the pleasure of basking in the thieves' dumbfounded expressions before he is a flurry of motion. The fire in his fists blaze as they floor rat after rat. They regroup quickly, he'll allow them that compliment, and they hit hard and fast as he does, but they're coarse and untrained in anything besides street combat. Old Grillby may be, but he will never forget his time at war, and he draws upon everything he learned to keep himself alive. Besides this, he has something worth fighting for.

The fire elemental pulls his punches until three of the goons are face-down on the floor. The other two join the fray, one releasing Little Pup in the process. To Grillby's surprise and their good judgement, the creature flees for cover behind the nearest stack of boxes, out of harm's way. Now, Grillby can truly fight.

These monsters broke into his store. They intended to steal from him. They _drew blood_ from his tiny charge. Inhaling deep, exhaling slow, Grillby opens his emotional channels and allows himself to feel. What he feels is _fury_.

Entire body blazing, just barely under control, Grillby's anger spreads from his chest to his limbs and his head. With the flood of emotion comes the flood of colour, changing his warm orange and red glow to an ice blue pyre. The shock factor causes a hesitation in the two rats remaining, and that's the only opening Grillby needs.

It really is a shame there aren't more thieves. It is inefficient to waste such supreme amounts of hate on such easy enemies. If there were four or five more, then Grillby may have gotten the most out of his emotional release. Alas, it is over too quickly and the pack lie unmoving on the concrete. They're not dead, Grillby kept some manner of control over his body, but there are bruises and burns in places they won't soon forget. Only when he's absolutely sure they will not be getting up does Grillby reign in his anger. In a smooth motion resembling water more than fire, the blue recedes from his limbs, sucked back into his chest like shadow under the light of the rising sun as he calms.

Now the only thing he feels is mild irritation. It looks as though the trash will have to be taken out early. Or possibly thrown in the river. A waste of time, but essential to sending a message. Perhaps Sans or Papyrus will help him when they come pick up-

Grillby jerks around, hyperaware of Little Pup's soft cries. From behind the boxes, they stare at him with leaking eyes, face twisted in an unusual combination of terrified relief. They gasp quietly, trying to get their sobs under control, but they can't stop rubbing at the cuts on their face.

What should he do? Comfort is not his area of expertise, not in a hardened society like this. He stands stiffly for too long before ultimately deciding he has to do something, even if it is just clean their face. The combination of blood and tears makes the Pup look bedraggled and homeless.

Grillby leans down, fully intending to coax the child from their hiding place, but there is no need. Little Pup runs to him, flinging their short arms around his waist as far as they can go and crying silently into his vest. He can't move. Shock renders his body still as stone. Then, from the depths of his chest, an unfamiliar sensation spreads.

He bends to envelop Little Pup in his own embrace, heating his body to a reassuring warm. Half of him knows the blood will be a bother to clean off his shirt. The other half doesn't give a crap, because the child in his arms is the only thing that matters.

He doesn't know how long they crouch like that. After a time, Little Pup's shaking ceases, content with burying their face in his chest. Gently, Grillby takes them by their shoulders and pushes them back so he can see their face. A smile worms its way through his eyes and he doesn't try to stop it from showing. "Come, little one. Let's get you cleaned up. We can't have Sans see those cuts, can we? He might worry."

Despite the recent scare, Little Pup grins back a bit and their expression causes Grillby's chest to flood with warmth. He stands, offering them a hand. They grasp it in their own, and the two of them leave the carnage of the fight behind.

* * *

Little Pup is settled at the bar with a cup of hot chocolate in hand- something Grillby hasn't needed to make in quite a long time- and the bartender reclines beside them puffing on a cigarette when the door bell chimes. In walk a rather ragged pair, one towering over the other. Grillby relaxes when he realizes who the two figures are.

Pup makes the connection a half-second afterwards, and utters a thrilled exclamation, lifting their arms to Grillby. He helps them to the floor, and they immediately run to their guardians, squeezing Papyrus' legs in a tight hug, and then moving to Sans. Grillby watches, concealing a smile, as the skeletons fuss and gush over their pet, Papyrus fretting over the cuts on their face and Sans congratulating them on how brave they must have been. Leaving his two younger housemates, Sans sidles up to Grillby. "Want to tell me what those cuts are all about? They look like claw marks."

Grillby exhales a curl of smoke. "The situation was taken care of."

Sans glances to Little Pup, then back to the elemental. "Anyone I should... chat with about that?"

Grillby allows his flame to flare briefly. "I have spoken to them."

Sans catches the hint. His grin stretches impossibly wide. "Grillby! I didn't know you cared!"

"I don't," he lies through his teeth, a flat and futile attempt but somehow he feels it's necessary. "My reasoning lay in the fact that if something happened to the child under my watch, you would never return here again."

"You did this for me?"

Grillby turns, the remains of his cigarette bursting into flame in his fist. He was finished with it anyway, and the effect is quite impressive. "If you never showed up again, I would have to take your tab payment from you by force."

Sans seems eager to shift the conversation to a subject other than his impending debt. "So, there weren't any other problems?"

"The night was uneventful. The child behaved themselves very maturely."

"You'd babysit again, then?"

Papyrus doesn't give Grillby an opportunity to answer; not that he would have answered anyway. "Sans! Little Pup is sleepy! Let's go home."

"Coming." Sans joins his brother and pet by the door, buttoning up his jacket. "Say goodbye to Grillby, kid."

The creature breaks away from Papyrus, eliciting a sharp sound of surprise from the taller skeleton, and runs to hug the bartender, face burying into the fabric of his pants. Expecting this reaction, Grillby lets none of the care and- dare he say- fondness he feels for Little Pup show in his face or his posture. His only action is to bend down and pat them twice on the head before gently prying them off his legs and ushering them back to their guardians.

Before the door swings shut behind the odd family, Little Pup twists around and releases Sans' hand long enough to wave a final farewell. Then, the door is closed, and the three of them vanish down the street.

Preparing for the next night, Grillby ponders Sans' probing question long and hard. He weighs the pros and cons, running scenario after scenario in his head. There are a thousand ways being the designated babysitter could go awry, but truthfully he can only come to one conclusion. Would he babysit again? In a heartbeat, yes.

 _ **END**_


End file.
